


hands on my waist, do it softly

by limerental



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Female Eskel, Female Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Female Jaskier | Dandelion, Genderless Witchers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome, but they're witchergender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26066581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: She had thought their ilk did not usually travel in pairs, but there they were, two great, hulking shapes in the rough-hewn doorway of the tavern.Or: fem!Jaskier gets sandwiched between two beefy lady Witchers
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 506





	hands on my waist, do it softly

Until the night the Witchers arrived, the young bard had begun to grow tired of Oxenfurt, the once exhilarating sights and sounds of the lively city having faded into something almost droll compared to the unknowns yet waiting afield.

The city brimming full of music, of academia, of art had seemed a vast breath of air from the stuffy propriety of court, but now ached with humdrum repetition. The songs all the same empty frivolity, the dances rehashed old trends, the company vapid and forgettable.

And then, the Witchers.

She had thought their ilk did not usually travel in pairs, but there they were, two great, hulking shapes in the rough-hewn doorway of the tavern. They dressed in full armor, not the typical garb of men settling in for a night at the tavern, and wore swords strapped to their backs. Both of similar, rugged stature, they bumped shoulders in obvious familiarity as they strode inside, the crowd parting away from them with the occasional hiss of disgust.

At the bar, one of them slung off his hood and smiled, a gesture whose good will was marred by the hideous snarl of his scarred face and the animal sharpness of his canines. The other shrugged off his hood as well, shaking out a mane of white hair.

“Buttercup!” the shrill voice hollering her stage name interrupted her gawking, and she winced at how juvenile and silly the name sounded to her ear now. When she had come to Oxenfurt from Kerack several months ago, over the moon to be allowed to continue her study of the arts at the illustrious Academy, it had seemed a cheeky, flirtatious nickname well-suited to the show of playful coyness she portrayed in her performances, but now, it seemed only childish and simple.

She had been born Juliana Elizabeth Pankratz, eldest daughter of the Viscount of Lettenhove, but none of her fellows in Oxenfurt knew of her noble birth. Her exaggerated curtsies and crooned pleasantries would not carry the same humorous weight otherwise, especially among the rabble of the common folk in the tavern. Nobility was fun to mock and jeer at, not as agreeable to have in your midst.

Beside her, Priscilla pinched the fat of her arm, much more sharply than was necessary to get her attention.

“Ow, you harpy!”

“Have you gone deaf, Buttercup? It’s your turn up. I’m famished. I’m about to drop,” groaned the petite blonde, leaning to steal a sip from Juliana’s ale. “What are staring at? What are you-- oooh, oh Buttercup, no, no, don’t look like that at their lot. They’re shit in bed and smell like horse to boot.”

“What would _you_ know about bedding Witchers?” huffed Juliana.

“Nothing!” said Priscilla shrilly, “because I have a share of self-respect left. Now, get up, Buttercup, and play that new song of yours! The one about the eunuch!”

Juliana played the one about the eunuch, strumming sweet chords on her lute, but found no joy in it, looking over and over at the darkened corner where the Witchers had retreated to, served ale and a warm plate of food by the begrudging barmaid.

Oxenfurt was a town of colorful characters but rarely of Witchers. Juliana had never seen one, only heard the cruel rumors, the tall tales. Surely, they were tall tales.

Not many monsters here in this pocket of civilization, at least few with teeth and claw and venom. Plenty with sweet words and false promises who walked in human form. Plenty of those everywhere.

Juliana had dreamed, always, of being a traveling bard, wandering the wilds of nature and experiencing the great, unknown breadth of the whole extravagant Continent from top to bottom and back again, but the limitations of her sex kept her bound to a more predictable life, destined to play as a demure court bard once she learned the scope of her trade. And it wasn’t even worth her time to daydream about being born a man instead, because then she would have been prepped to inherit her father’s title and what a dull and tedious life that would have been.

But there! There in the broad shoulders of the two Witchers lurked the promise of adventure the likes of which Juliana had only dreamed of. Or at the very least, as Priscilla had so shrewdly deduced of her intentions, an adventurous lay.

Her last song sung and mind made up, she staggered first to the bar and ordered three, brimming ales sent to the farthest table in table in the corner and strolled up just as they arrived to claim hers and sidle into the seat beside the scarred Witcher, facing the one with pretty, full lips and a white shock of hair.

“Are you lost, little bard?” asked the scarred one, his voice a low growl, and Juliana was not ignorant of the hum of tension that sharpened as she slid into the booth. From the corner of her eye, she saw Priscilla gesturing at her wildly, desperately, but ignored the woman easily and with a bright grin, did not allow herself to be intimidated.

“A drink!” she exclaimed, knocking her mug into the two she had ordered for them, froth slopping and spilling over the edge that she hurried to lap from her knuckles. “On me. Though now I’m afraid that you owe me a story. Maybe two. One for each ale.”

“No,” said the white-haired one and made as though to stow his coin purse and leave. Realizing she was trapping the scarred one in the bench, she squared her elbows against the table and stayed put, distinctly aware that she could be shoved aside by the likes of them in a heartbeat.

“Now, now, wait a minute! Maybe just your names in payment. Tell me your names, good sirs.”

They looked at one another, a slow and wordless conversation. By Melitele, their eyes were like molten gold. Their features chiseled and rugged and sharp. She was close enough to the scarred one to feel a lick of his body heat, and that alone curled arousal deep in her belly. Together, they looked from each other to her, considering, sizing her up.

“I’m called Eskel,” said the scarred one, trying on a smile. “That’s Geralt. What are you trying to prove here, little bard? Did your companion dare you?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “Warned me away from you, if anything. Priscilla’s a prude. And boring. I’m not. Er… boring.”

“Right,” said Eskel, the other simply looking without even a minuscule change in facial expression.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” said Juliana without thought. “Listen, you must be tired? You must have been on the road a long while?”

The scarred Witcher hummed in agreement, the other much more tight-lipped.

The barmaid returned to clear their empty platters a moment later, and Juliana made a hasty and very bold decision.

“My dear,” she said, laying a hand on the woman’s brown forearm, “would you be a darling and prepare a room with a bath for me? Large enough for three.”

The woman cocked an appraising eyebrow, and Juliana almost expected a scolding as she would have gotten from the women of her youth. A scandalized _young lady!_ as she was dragged off for a lashing. As it was, the barmaid just accepted her offered coin and told her the room would be prepared shortly, after the dinner rush.

“That meant to be an invitation?” asked Eskel with a chuckle, and Juliana focused in on him, daring to let her pale fingers brush the crook of his elbow. She did not answer his question, instead batting her eyelashes and trying to look as comely as she knew she was. She had styled her chestnut hair in neat ringlets for her night out and donned a gown of turquoise shimmering with silver embroidery. Juliana knew she had good features, a round-moon face and a thin neck and a prim waist, the ruffle of her bodice hinting at even more appealing assets.

Her mind was made up, and nothing could convince her of the ill-advised nature of her decision. She was going to ride these Witchers into the sunset, off on whatever sort of adventure she could drag out of them.

* * *

It happened in the white-fog quality of dreams.

Juliana climbed the stairs, hand on the smooth, pine ledge of the railing, and the Witchers creaked along behind her. Below in the tavern, Priscilla gesticulated wildly in shock and horror, trying to signal poor Buttercup to cease what she was doing, stop it all now before she ended up dead or worse, and Juliana, ignoring the enthusiastic hand-waving, gave her a thumbs up paired with a cheeky grin.

The room that had been prepared for them waited at the end of the hall, the cracked door swishing against the floorboards as she pressed against it, inviting the warm glow of lamplight into the shadowed hallway. Inside, a broad, wooden tub waited, brimming with water, and a merry fire crackled in the hearth.

Juliana stopped on the threshold, holding the door ajar, and looked behind her into the hallway. At first, she saw only darkness and thought the Witchers had not followed, playing a strange joke, but then, something flashed, two glints of coin-bright eyeshine and then four and then, much lower, six. A little tabby weaved out of the darkness and bumped against her shins, tail poofed into a bottlebrush as it stared at the Witchers.

“Friend of yours?” she asked as she strode into the room, the tabby dashing off down the hallway the moment the two shapes in the dark moved to follow her. “Your eyes do quite a peculiar thing in the darkness, did you know?”

“I had no idea,” said Geralt, baring his teeth in what he must have thought passed for a smile.

“Cheeky devil!” said Juliana, draping herself on a high-backed chair near the fire. She had bathed this week and did not feel an immediate rush to be the first to undress, but the Witchers looked and smelled as though they had been dragged face-first through puddles in the slums. And everyone knew the true composition of puddles in the slums.

“Well, the water won’t stay warm all night,” she said boldly, crossing her legs and leaning forward in an obvious show of interest. “Into the tub with the both of you. You won’t waste my coin and my kindness, will you?”

Eskel lifted his gloved fingers and flexed them, and the water suddenly frothed with more steam and even a few bubbles. _Magic!_ That’s right, she had heard stories of the Witcher signs. Not to be deterred, she leaned her chin into her palm, elbow balanced on her crossed legs and quirked an eyebrow.

“Oh good sir, what other talents do those fingers have?”

The white-haired Witcher snorted and slapped the other on the shoulder as he moved past and began to strip himself of his armor, thunking heavy pieces down one by one. The scarred Witcher twisted the key in the lock and began the same.

Juliana watched with an eager fascination as the pair stripped, revealing bodies far less broad than they had appeared when padded with armor and bristling with weapons. In the tavern, they had looked nearly identical, but now she saw that Geralt was slighter and narrower and a hair shorter.

He was the first to strip off his plain linen shirt and shove down his trousers in one go, and her sordid daydreams of being spit-roasted by two glorious cocks at each end evaporated like morning dew.

“Oh fuck, you're-- oh, you’re _women_ ,” blurted Juliana, her traitorous mouth miles ahead of her brain.

Her cheeks burned as their amused eyes turned to her.

“No,” said Eskel, hands on his-- her? their? -- hips, “we’re Witchers.”

Standing that way, with feet planted and rough hands settling into the grooves of their own hipbones, she could clearly see the width of their pelvis in comparison to the dip of their narrowing waist. Their shoulders were broad and rippled with muscle, their thighs wide as tree trunks, their arms those of a woodcutter rather than a maiden, their skin carved with deep, puckered scars across torso and limb alike, but those were undoubtedly full, pink-nippled breasts that rose and fell with their slow breaths.

Between their spread legs, dark hair curled to nearly obscure their genitals, but clearly no softened cock with wrinkled balls rested there. From what little of the skin she could see beneath the hair, it did seem that they were more… well-endowed than the ordinary female body, but the pink bulge of hooded flesh that peeked through the dark curls was no manhood in the traditional sense.

Geralt’s body looked much the same but rather with hair as white as that on his crown.

“Oh,” said Juliana, blinking rapidly. “Oh.”

“Our gratitude for the bath, little bard,” said Eskel as they gripped the sides of the tub to settle into the water with a groan, Geralt following suit. They clearly expected her to flee to unlock the door and return down to the tavern after the reveal of the nature of their bodies. They had likely expected that all along.

Fortunately enough, Juliana could not be so easily deterred, and their clear dismissal only awakened fresh, stubborn fire in her belly. She had lived in girl’s dormitories her whole life. She was no stranger to kissing and touching, though most was chaste and kept above the belt, her girlhood crushes manifesting in a desperate yearning for friendship and closeness rather than the sort of gestures reserved for couplings of men and women.

She had heard of those things happening, of course she had. Her own great aunt lived on an estate alone with her former handmaiden, who was still said to share her bedchamber so as to “more easily tend her” despite having long been replaced in her employment by younger girls.

Juliana even had suspicions about her dear friend Priscilla, who scoffed at interest from men but blushed prettily when passing the brothels in the lower town where buxom women in varying states of undress waved their handkerchiefs out the windows.

She had never thought long about what she herself thought about women’s bodies or womanly affection, but sitting in the high-backed chair before the fire, staring at the Witchers in the steaming bath, these thoughts ricocheted lightning fast through her brain (as all thoughts did) and settled within a few, deep breaths into a realization.

She stood abruptly, her skirts falling to brush the floorboards, and twisted her arms back to hurriedly undo the stays of her bodice. She slung the fabric over her head and carelessly to the floor, immediately thinking better of such haste and draping it over the arm of the chair, then did the same with her petticoat and tights and other layers until she stood before the bath in only her underthings.

“Right!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Right then, how should I address you? You’re not women but how are you typically referred to? Or how do you refer to yourselves rather, it seems you’re quite happy to allow others out in the world to refer to you as one would a man, yes, which I can see the utility of, oh! If I could disguise myself as a man and be believed, I would in a heartbeat! I could get away with anything! I could travel the world and walk alone at night and not be jeered at in the streets!”

Juliana coughed to return herself to the present and the issue at hand. The Witchers soaking in the bath regarded her with narrowed eyes but did not answer her question.

“Come now,” she said, “what should I call you? I do prefer to make an effort not to be rude to those I’m about to share a bath with.”

She had intended to wait until the Witchers withdrew from the bath to seduce them, had hoped to test the sturdy construction of the bed in the corner, but now, a desperation overcame her, an overwhelming need to feel their warm skin against hers, to be held in their flexing arms.

Juliana allowed her underthings to pool at her ankles and stepped free of them, standing fully nude before the tub. She knew with the glow of the fire at her back, she made a pretty picture, all pale, freckled skin and small, pert breasts and smooth curves.

Of the two in the bath, Eskel, at least, did seem to appreciate the sight, strange eyes sliding down her naked figure with a hum caught in their throat. When they quirked two beckoning fingers, Juliana nearly tripped over her discarded underthings in her haste to answer the summons. The brush of bare skin as Eskel’s damp hand swallowed the dip of her waist inspired a strange spark across her body. Some magical quality of their body? It hummed right to the core of her.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, that’s very nice.”

“Is it?” hummed Eskel, the low timbre of their voice inspiring fresh coils of heat in her body. Geralt snorted in amusement and tipped their head back in the water.

“Oh yes, you could give up witchering and take up as a masseuse,” said Juliana, closing her eyes against the swell of heat as Eskel’s calloused palm slid slowly up her waist to her ribs, the rough skin of their scarred thumb nudging beneath the curve of her small breast.

The spark of magic had mostly faded after the initial contact, but the burgeoning warmth did not.

“You can refer to me however you like, little bard,” Eskel said in a rumbling growl. “I am both woman and man and neither in the same breath. If it comforts you to refer to me as a woman or excites you to refer to me as a man, then do so. It’s your choice.”

The Witcher’s voice was more deep-toned and gravelly even than some men, and she wondered at the contrast between the decidedly female aspects of their anatomy and the low voice and rippling muscle. A side effect of the mutations that the Witchers underwent, perhaps.

It should have comforted her to choose to view the Witchers as women, but she was adrift in unfamiliar waters here. A cock, she could deal with and had dealt with frequently starting at a far younger age than her noble family would ever be allowed to know. Juliana had perfected the art of escaping the dormitory at night to meet one boy or another in clandestine, moonlit rendezvous, and in Oxenfurt, she had proven herself a worthy lover to men of all walks of life.

“Don’t confuse the girl, Eskel,” said Geralt.

“I’m not confused!” blurted Juliana, blushing red under the weight of the white-haired WItcher’s gaze. “I’m not a girl, either.” Given the context, she blushed harder, realizing how her words could be misconstrued. “I mean I’m a woman. Not a child.”

“Hmm,” said Geralt, regarding her. “How old do you think she is, Eskel?”

“No more than eighteen summers, I’d say.” The scarred Witcher’s thumb rubbed under the swell of her breast, ragged nail catching in a drag that stole Juliana’s breath.

“A child,” repeated Geralt firmly, more to the other Witcher rather than to Juliana. “Barely stumbled free of the whelping box.”

“Lighten up, Geralt,” said Eskel. “The girl is braver than most. Better she be brave in our company. Others would take advantage.”

“Better still if she learned that her bravery will get her killed one day.”

“But not today,” said Eskel, thumb smoothing in small circles on her chest. Their single hand was so large that their fingers could nearly cup the whole width of Juliana’s side, fingertips tickling along her back. She felt the pull of each callous as her ribs expanded and contracted again with shortened breaths. “Today she will enjoy a pleasant bath with us. Is the water too warm for you, little bard?”

She jerked to dip a hand into the water and found it much warmer than she would ordinarily prefer. Rather than say so, she shook her head.

“Get in, then,” said Eskel, “allow me to reward you for your bravery.”

Pointedly ignoring Geralt rolling his eyes, Juliana grasped the side of the tub and clambered in with far less grace than she would have preferred. Rather than settle between the two Witchers in the water, she slung a leg over Eskel’s broad form and straddled their thighs, back to the white-haired Witcher. She realized only as she did so that the warm, solid thighs beneath the water were far wider than she could comfortably straddle while maintaining her balance, and there was nothing to brace herself against except for the swell of the Witcher’s chest.

She flushed deep red as she chose to flatten her palms on Eskel’s upper arms instead, doing her best to avoid looking down to the water lapping over the Witcher’s nipples.

“Are all Witchers… of your bodily persuasion?” she asked, and she felt Eskel’s chuckle through the ripple of their solid bicep and flex of their thighs.

“All Witcher adepts are female, yes,” they said.

“Eskel,” warned Geralt’s voice behind her.

“Hush, Geralt, it’s hardly a secret,” said Eskel.

“Still not a wise detail to reveal to a stranger.”

“Who said I was wise? Or that our little bard was a stranger?”

“You’re calling her little bard because you don’t remember her name,” said Geralt.

“I never told you my name,” said Juliana.

Eskel leaned up toward her, the water rippling as they did so and slid both hands up to swallow her ribcage.

“What’s your name, little bard?” they asked.

Juliana twisted over her shoulder to look at Geralt, whose cocked elbows rested on the rim of the tub, white hair dripping with bath water.

She raised her chin in defiance, and said with a sniff, “It’s a secret.”

Eskel laughed, a loud, barking thing, and tensed their grip around Juliana’s waist. The brush of something against her skin startled her into looking away from Geralt and down her own body and _oh_ , Eskel’s nose nudged against her sternum and then the heat of their lips, the disfiguring scar that twisted along them lending a strange texture to the kiss.

The scar tissue was not rough like their callouses but softer, velvety. Without thinking, she moved a hand to cup the scarred cheek, fingers slotting into the deep grooves. No sooner had she done so than she jerked away again, realizing how impolite such a touch was.

“It’s alright,” rumbled Eskel, lips mouthing against her skin. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“I don’t want to be rude,” said Juliana but trailed her fingers back along the puckered skin as she did so. Eskel shifted their head, and their eyelashes brushed the meat of her palm.

“Just a scar,” they said. “Got one or two of those.”

“Adds to your rugged good looks,” said Juliana, breathless with her own daring.

“You detest that scar, you miserable flirt,” huffed Geralt’s voice behind her. Small splashes signalled that they had begun to scrub and clean themselves.

“Now who’s revealing secrets, you twat.”

Geralt grunted in a way that Juliana suspected was inspired by a sharp prodding from one of Eskel’s toes.

“Hey, luckily the girl’s as much a flatterer as you,” said Geralt. “Regular coquette.”

“I’m only being truthful,” said Juliana, holding Eskel’s scarred face cupped in each hand. “My aim isn’t to flatter. Your scars are dashing. Handsome.”

Eskel snorted in clear disbelief at the truth of her words. Their lips skirted along the curve of her breast, a puff of breath against her nipple shocking a deep inhale.

“You’ll convince Eskel of that when hell warms over,” said Geralt.

“Geralt, if you’re going to be ornery all night, why don’t you buy your own room?”

“What and waste the girl’s charity? Not like you’ll last all night. You know how you are. One orgasm in, and it’s lights out.”

“Oh! Oh so that’s how it's going to be then. Uncalled for.”

Eskel’s rumble of laughter against her breast did something very pleasant to the sensitive skin of her nipple, and she arched against their body, head tipped back, chestnut hair spilling loose to brush the surface of the bath.

“You bicker like siblings,” she breathed as she slid her fingers up into Eskel’s short-cropped hair, hoping they did not notice how greatly she was trembling.

“Of a sort,” said Geralt.

There was the sound of the other Witcher rising from the water behind her. She expected them to step out and towel off, finished scrubbing the filth of the road from their body. She did not expect warm hands to slip above Eskel’s on her waist, a kiss pressed against her shoulderblade.

“Oh,” gasped Juliana, for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. “Oh the bickering’s just foreplay. You two have shared a woman before.”

“Course we have. Brothels already charge us double.”

“Mmm, do you always travel together?” asked Juliana. “I had thought that Witchers traveled alone.”

“Some things require a level of… teamwork,” said Eskel. They peppered kisses along one breast and then the other, Juliana’s heartbeat thumping up to meet their soft lips, even as Geralt loomed behind her. “Are you writing a paper, little bard, or are we fucking?”

“Not often a woman pays us for our company,” said Geralt against her shoulder.

“‘M not paying you,” said Juliana. “The bath’s for my benefit. Bet your horses stink less than you did down in that tavern.”

“Cheeky devil.”

Teeth stung against the juncture of her neck and shoulder, a quick, sharp pain and away again. Juliana shuddered between them, unable to go far, her head falling back against Geralt’s chest and her hips pinned against Eskel’s thighs.

“You like it,” she managed.

Geralt’s fingers caught in the length of her curled hair, tugging until they pressed their nose into the bared span of her neck. _Scenting her_ , she realized with a little thrum of arousal. Could the Witcher feel the thunder of her heart rate in her throat? Scent her pheromones? The slick in the part of her legs?

Both Witchers moved at the same, slow pace in their exploration of her body, and no amount of wiggling in their hold encouraged them to speed up. Their heartbeats sank into her with equal slowness, in a way that should have been sluggish, languid but instead was maddening. Their movements were exact and planned, even in this, in the worship of her body as singularly driven as they must be on the hunt.

“May I taste you, little bard?” asked Eskel, and for a moment, she could not understand the question.

“Yes,” she breathed without thought. “ _Yes._ ”

Their tongue had already flattened on the nub of her nipple, had swept the salt of her skin in small laps. Eskel’s hand dipped below the bathwater, and with a careful pressure, fit the rough skin of their thumb against the heated skin in the part of her legs and simply held against her clitoris.

She knew at once where Eskel meant to taste her, and even as she nodded, found herself lifted in their arms, water running in rivulets down her body. Lifted from the water, even the warm air of the felt chilled. Goosebumps broke out along her limbs.

The Witchers worked in sync, Geralt bracing her against their chest and Eskel hitching her up wholly free of the water, hands cupping under the pert swell of her ass. They held her in their hands like a bird’s egg, careful not to bruise or crack, though she could feel it, their potential to do so.

She jumped at the touch of Eskel’s mouth against her inner thigh but could not go far, taut and pinned in their hold.

Some things required teamwork indeed.

Everything contracted to her awareness of the places where Eskel pressed their mouth. First the crease of her thigh and pelvis, then the tuft of the dark hair at her pubic mound, then deeper to taste between the folds of her cunt. She was no stranger to the act, of course not, but it was rare to find a man willing to enact it, harder still to find one who knew what he was doing.

Eskel, self-described as neither man nor woman, knew just what they were doing.

Juliana’s cheeks burned as their molten eyes slid to hers from between her legs, and she felt the blush steal down her neck and chest. The white-haired Witcher behind her tightened their hold around her, palms shifting to swallow each breast as they continued to scent her throat.

The restraint was maddening. She wanted to flail and writhe under the slick press of Eskel’s tongue but could not, and when she began to voice her pleasure instead in low whines that built in volume, found Geralt’s thick fingers pressed into her mouth to silence her.

“Hush, little bard,” said Geralt into her hair. “Don’t disturb the other patrons. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

And it was. Somehow, without a single cock between them, her fantasy of being broken apart by the two mysterious strangers was coming to fruition. She drooled around the digits in her mouth and panted in sharp breaths as Eskel’s tongue first laved along her and then inside in quick thrusts. As good as any cock or moreso, deft fingers slicking in pleasant circles even as lips and tongue serviced her.

It was what she had wanted, a thrill of adrenaline running through her as she felt the helplessness of her situation. She could not escape their arms if she wanted to.

She did not want to.

It struck her all at once, the sudden surge of her orgasm, and she could not help but clench her thighs around Eskel’s shoulders, back arched and twisting in Geralt’s hold, whimpering around the rough skin of their knuckles. A throbbing ache of pleasure swallowed her, but Eskel’s mouth did not relent, tongue sweeping over skin that soon grew oversensitive.

At last, they let up, leaning back to press kisses along her shaking thighs instead.

Geralt hummed against her throat, offering small murmurs of comfort, and Juliana realized that tears slipped down her cheeks, that her breaths stilted with sobs around the fingers pressed between his lips.

“Shhh, shhh, Eskel’s got quite the mouth, I know,” they said.

“Shut it,” said Eskel, their voice rougher than before. “Let the kid breathe, you brute.”

Geralt’s fingers slipped from her mouth, trailing wet along her jaw, and Juliana tipped her chin back to draw gulps of air, wishing she had her hands free to wipe the tears from her cheeks. It should have been terrifying to be held like this between them, especially as her orgasm faded, but it was not, oh, it was not. She waited with trembling anticipation of what they would do next.

“Bed?” she whispered, not trusting her voice with more volume, and Eskel’s laughter rumbled against the crook of her knee.

“I’ve hardly made use of this bath you so graciously bought for us,” they said, and Juliana saw the grease of their short-cropped hair, the dirt under the fingernails.

“I’ve had my fill,” said the white-haired Witcher behind her, and they lifted her away from Eskel, as easily as if she weighed nothing at all.

“Not had your fill of her, I see,” Eskel said with amusement as they moved to scrub themselves clean.

“You didn’t exactly share.”

“I’m sharing now. How generous of me. Little bard, are you doing alright?”

She nodded, though could not quite be sure of the truth of that.

Juliana wobbled badly as Geralt settled her on her own feet, and she was glad to find they did not fully relinquish their hold on her, arm slung low along her belly. The Witcher toweled her dry roughly and when prodding her toward the bed in the corner proved futile, her legs refusing to obey, they hitched her back into their arms and all but slung her onto the mattress.

She had had orgasms before, of course she had, and this one had not even been particularly earth-shattering, and yet, all of her limbs were now heavy and loose. Embarrassingly, she found that the bed had perhaps been a mistake, her body drained and exhausted as the adrenaline began to leave her.

"Is this some sort of magic?" she mumbled.

"Mmmhmm," hummed Eskel. "It's one of the perks."

“Come here,” said Geralt, and Juliana willed her body to roll over. She shoved herself up to see them resting against the wall, legs spread with one knee cocked up. Their muscles still glistened with droplets from the bath, pale and cut with scars.

One of their rough hands moved between their legs.

“I’ve never--” She cut herself off, not sure how to express the extent to which she was out of her depth here. She had never felt like this, the thrill of excitement and arousal swelling with a hesitance that the Witcher seemed to sense.

“Come here,” repeated the white-haired Witcher and extended their unoccupied hand to her. Juliana obeyed, their fingers tangling in her mussed curls and curling around her head. She expected to be guided between Geralt’s legs and resigned herself to a messy attempt at replicating what Eskel had done to her in the bath. Instead, they drew her up to lie against their body, firm muscle a tantalizing contrast to her soft curves.

Juliana pressed her palms against the mattress to hold her body just above the Witcher, the tingling press of damp skin far too overwhelming, and Geralt led her into a kiss, their head ducked to angle their lips together. Their mouth was far softer than expected and the kiss more gentle, almost careful.

“Can’t do that with a whore,” Juliana dared to breathe against their lips as she drew slightly away. The Witcher’s strange eyes gleamed, more unearthly with proximity.

Their hand had not ceased its movement between their legs, forearm bumping softly against Juliana’s belly. She should do something. She knew she should. She was no inexperienced babe, had rolled about in beds aplenty, had delighted in the feel of a lover’s skin, the warmth of their kiss.

But pinned under the Witcher’s gaze, she faltered, heart rate climbing. She felt flayed open and brand new and utterly useless.

Her inaction was interrupted by the sound of Eskel rising from the bath behind her, stalking to the bed and clambering on. They hadn’t bothered to towel their body dry, which Juliana discovered as they enveloped her suddenly in the firm length of their body, arms bracketing her own as their breath ghosted along the back of her neck.

Had the scarred Witcher possessed a cock, the position would have proved a convenient and titillating angle. 

_What happens next?_ she wanted to ask and could not, forehead dropping against Geralt’s shoulder, shivering with anticipation.

What happened next was that one of Eskel’s hands slipped back to cup her bottom, flexing to just brush between the part of her legs. Geralt’s hand shifted to touch her as well, the whisper of calloused fingers between her folds.

They moved together with a slow surety that blurred their bodies into one being. She could no longer tell who gently circled the nub of her clitoris, who pressed a finger inside, palm cupping the swell of her cheek.

“Oh,” Juliana breathed.

She lost herself to the staccato flutter of her heartbeat, surrounded by the contrast of the slow, steady thumping in the chests behind and below her. It should not be novel, their touch, their bodies, the copper smell of their sweat and arousal, but it was, it was, it drove her half mad. She had been touched like this before and never had. She had never been taken so fully by pleasure with what should have been a simple touch.

Something hummed under the Witchers’ skin. Something drove her near the brink again, and she sighed into Geralt’s still-damp neck, their hair smelling like the clove soap from the bath but something else as well, the metallic ozone of magic and mutant.

“Little bard,” whispered Eskel against her hair. “Come apart for us, little bard.”

And she did, she did, her arms giving way to collapse against Geralt’s chest and body shuddering with it. Geralt tipped back her head and swallowed her groan with a kiss, and their hands still moved between her legs, producing wet sounds that should have been embarrassing and shameful.

And it _was_ shameful to be brought over the edge once more and to have not even touched them yet, selfish in her all-encompassing pleasure. But Juliana could no longer lift her limbs, her eyelids heavy, and besides, she felt the shudder of Geralt’s body beneath her as Eskel’s hands shifted attention to their body instead of hers.

In the blurry haze of the fragmenting aftermath of her orgasm, she felt and heard them bring each other pleasure as they held her between them, low grunts and sighs and slick noises.

She watched with wide eyes as they kissed over her shoulder, pinning her body more tightly. They kissed with eyes closed, familiar and practiced, Eskel’s scarred lips a contrast to Geralt’s pale pink, dark hair and white, ragged edges lining up just so with a beauty that stole Juliana’s breath.

“Lovely,” she whispered and found herself met with their twin stares, haunting and utterly beautiful. She was so very tired, her surroundings blurring. Something in their touch had drained her, something pulled her away into sleep whether she wished it or not. She should be afraid, she knew.

She was not afraid.

* * *

Juliana woke with a start, twisted up in the bed linens and alone, the fire burned low and air in the room gone cold. Her heartbeat pounded in her chest as she tried to remember why this was unsettling, what had happened the night before. She had not been alone. She had been--

She sat upright, twisted more helplessly in the linens.

The Witchers.

She stumbled to free herself from the bed and looked for any sign of them in the room. No swords, no armor, no boots. Her own small pile of clothes on the high-backed chair before the fire.

She dove for them and nearly tripped over her own feet, tugging each layer over her head and cursing their great number. She slung her lute and pack and boots under her arm, taken by the harried knowledge that she was wasting too much time. Her clumsy fingers could not wholly manage the ties of her bodice, and she cursed and left them to trail loose behind her as she ran barefoot down the hushed hallway and slapped down the slatted stairs.

It was still early morning, the light in the tavern dull and grey, and a barmaid leaned half-dozing on a table by the door.

“The Witchers!” called Juliana and was promptly shushed by the few morning patrons of the establishment, some clearly having slept tipped over the bar and grumbling about being disturbed. She did not lower her volume, voice pitched high in distress. “How long ago did they leave?”

“Not long,” grumbled the barmaid. “Pipe down, minstrel. I’m sure the gentlemen wished to take their leave of you in peace.”

“Which way?” squeaked Juliana, plaintive and desperate, and the barmaid rolled her eyes and pointed in the direction of the stables.

Juliana shoved the heavy tavern door open and took to the streets, careful not to trod on anything unseemly, the packed dirt of the path smooth and hard against her bare soles.

She met them just as they had swung into the saddles to stride out of the yard, their mares snorting in alarm as Juliana leapt into their path. She swung an arm wide in front of her in a clear gesture to _stop, stop at once_ and looked desperately between the two mounted figures.

“Little bard, what are you--”

“Take me with you!” she shouted. “Take me with you, please! I’ll be good! I’ll cook for you! I’ll mend your clothes or… or I could be your barker! I’ll-- please!”

Someone leaned from their window to yell into the yard that it was too early for such a ruckus. One of her boots fell from the crook of her arm and hit the dust with a thump.

Eskel’s scarred lips stretched into a grin, and the corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched.

And off she went on an adventure indeed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] hands on my waist, do it softly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28549263) by [Chantress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chantress/pseuds/Chantress)




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